


somebody told me [that you had a boyfriend]

by apeirophobia



Series: takotsubo cardiomyopathy [3]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cheating, Consent Issues, Gen, Harry-centric, M/M, Sad Ashton, Take Me Home Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apeirophobia/pseuds/apeirophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry doesn't know what possesses him the first time he twists his fingers in Ashton's hair and kisses him, all he knows is that he isn't thinking about school districts or paint colors or hyphenated surnames anymore. </p><p>It's terrifying. It's exhilarating. And it's the worst thing he's ever done.</p><p>[takes place during "the smile that doesn't reach your eyes"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	somebody told me [that you had a boyfriend]

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who left lovely comments/kudos on the first two parts of this series! Here's part three, it's Harry's POV during the time 'the smile that doesn't reach your eyes' is set, hope you enjoy! <3

 

It starts with Ashton smiling--smiling so wide Harry doesn't think he's ever seen someone so happy--and Harry smiling back and shaking the other boy's hand and Louis leaning his chin on Harry's shoulder in that non-confrontational but subtly possessive way they have about each other. At the time he doesn't think anything of it. Doesn't think anything about Louis at all, and maybe that's the problem. Maybe he was already taking Louis for granted, maybe he was already  _ ~~suffocating~~  _pulling away.  No. The problem isn't what he doesn't think about Louis--chin on his shoulder, warm at his back--when Harry first smiles at Ashton. No, the problem is what he thinks about _Ashton_. Because he doesn’t think _this could go somewhere_  (which--when accompanied by the excited twist in his gut--is not an appropriate thought for someone who's been in a happy relationship for three years anyway) when he sees Ashton's eyes light up in what can only be described as thrilled devotion. No, when he meets Ashton's gaze, he thinks, _I **hope** this goes somewhere_.

Harry would like to say it started when he saw Ashton across the hotel lobby at their first tour meeting for Take Me Home, but the truth is it started long before that. It started nine months before when Louis said “I’m going to buy a house in L.A.,” when the panic of an intertwined future really started to set in, or maybe it started when he turned nineteen and realized he'd spent nearly a fifth of his life with the same person (and the shortness of breath really came when he realized it felt _right_ ). Maybe it started when Louis kissed him in the X-factor manor and he felt oh-so-breathless. Maybe it started when they met.

 

Sometimes--even _before_ \--Harry would feel dirty, sleeping next to Louis with all their limbs entangled and their tattoos pressed up against each other. Sometimes (all the time) he feels like he doesn’t deserve Louis. It’s a gnawing feeling—he doesn’t know where it comes from—and he can’t seem to abate it except--except when Ashton smiles at him it feels like…it feels good. Kind of like the first time Louis looked over at him at Boot Camp and told him he was going to be fine. Kind of like the first time an amphitheater cheered for his solo. A cute boy impressed with his talent, with his success, with his _personality_ and it feels...kind of like validation (and Harry has always been a glutton for approval). 

 

It starts with Ashton. It starts with the tour. It starts with laughter and shy smiles and poor decisions. It doesn't end in tears, but that's only because Harry does his best impression of heartless, and Louis is too stubborn to let Harry see him cry. 

 

* * *

 

Everything else is a lie. It starts three weeks before tour begins--three weeks before Harry even meets Ashton--when he and Louis are having breakfast. It's a nice quiet morning, early sun slanting through the blinds of their kitchen windows, the atmosphere in their Cheshire home warm and cozy. Louis is cutting through a stack of pancakes with a fork, a look of concentration on his face, and Harry is stirring cream into his Earl Grey--a fond look on his--when he thinks  _this is the boy I want to spend the rest of my life with_. It's not an unusual thought, nor is it unbidden, he's had ones like it before. And it's not such an absurd notion--shared last names and kids seems like the logical destination for them--but for some reason it  _hits_ him right then. He thinks,  _this is the boy I want to marry_. And then he thinks,  _I'm nineteen years old_.

 

It takes his breath away, and it feels like fear, but it's not. He's just...overwhelmed. Like just  _knowing_ that he wants Louis for the rest of his life feels like losing that last bit of control.

 

"Alright, love?" Louis says, pausing with his cup halfway to his mouth, eyeing Harry with slight concern for seemingly zoning out in the middle of their breakfast.

 

Harry smiles--because it's  _Louis_ and he's so beautiful and he's _his_ and how could he ever not?--and says, "Never better," leaning over to give the older boy a syrup-laced kiss.

 

Four weeks later he's pushing Ashton up against the bathroom wall of some club and he tells himself he doesn't know why.

 

* * *

 

Liam is giving Harry this piercing, _judgmental_ , look from across the dressing room, and Harry really doesn't give him enough credit, laying on the disappointed dad facade only three weeks into tour must be something of a record. He can feel the older boy's gaze at the edge of his periphery, the way a child with a guilty conscience (which he is _not_ , he's an apathetic adolescent, thank you very much) can feel their teacher's damning stare, and says, “What?” sharply, turning to Liam, daring him to voice his objections.

 

Liam ducks his head, and lets out a breath, “I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he says, pretending to be occupied with pulling his shirt over his head, like he can’t feel Harry’s eyes boring into him from across the room. Harry wonders if he reads parenting books on how to be hypocritical and non-confrontational at the same time. Liam is impressively infuriating sometimes. It's not that Harry doesn't love Liam--because he totally does--it's just that he really doesn't like him sometimes. Like now.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry snaps, and then thinks  _why am I even having this conversation?_ There's literally nothing Liam could say to him that would change his mind about...anything really. There's a reason the five of them were put in a group at Boot Camp (there's a reason they _had_ to be put in a group) and there's a reason Harry and Liam always butt heads. They're all type A personalities. None of them want to ask for directions, all of them want to drive.

 

“This is _all_ our livelihoods, don’t dick around with it,” Liam says, and Harry raises his eyebrows, smirking at Liam's choice of diction. He doesn't know what Liam's seen, to cause him to jump to whatever conclusions he's currently poised upon--and he doesn't particularly care, either. Harry's always been one of those 'ask for forgiveness instead of permission' types anyway. Liam has his own issues to sort out, and Harry would never judge him for them. All he asks is that Liam returns the favor. They're bandmates, _brothers_  after-all, and brothers might not always like each other, but they always have each other's backs. Right now Harry wishes Liam would get off his.

 

He doesn't know that Liam saw Ashton stumble out of the club bathroom--a predictable five minutes after Harry had walked out--looking like he'd been attacked by a vampire. He doesn't know that Niall'd mentioned the odd tension that's been building between Louis and Harry, offhandedly to Liam just the night before. He doesn't know that he's been putting the whole group on edge. Harry is blissfully ignorant of his own effect while Liam is painfully aware of every consequence of every action his friends take.

 

And Liam should have said _this is your_ ** _future_** _you’re fucking with_. He should have said _what the fuck are you doing_ and shaken Harry by the shoulders until his Americana bandana had fallen to the floor (Liam should have done a lot of things, but then, so should have Harry--more so, there're a lot of things Harry  _shouldn't_ have done). He should have said _how could you_ , but he doesn't. Liam just looks at Harry and shakes his head, saying, “Louis is one of my closest friends, my brother, he means the world to me.”

 

Harry scoffs, “And what do you think he is to me?”--and Harry has to admit, he does a damn good job of acting indignantly innocent-- “Jesus, Liam, he’s been my best friend since the second week of Boot Camp,” and he hears the words repeat in his head  _best friend_ and they're guilt-inducing and condemning all at once, "Do you really think I'd do anything to hurt him?" and it's an honest question, one that a month ago _Harry_ would have had an entirely didn't answer to.

 

“Just your best friend?” Liam says, raising an eyebrow and letting the implication hang between them, “What’s Ashton?” 

 

“I’m not having this conversation,” Harry says, eyes narrowing as he turns to leave the dressing room, "You never did wear guilt well," Liam says to his back and Harry pauses halfway to the door. Apparently he  _is_ having this conversation.  


 

"Harry, this isn't like you," Liam says, softer now, and he sounds so caring that Harry almost cracks, almost says _I love Louis so much sometimes I can't breathe_ almost says _Ashton looks at me like I hung the moon and it's just too easy_  almost says  _please help me I won't stop_. 

 

"If it's just a...just a _fuck_ then cut it out," Liam says, the words foreign in Liam's proper mouth and all Harry can hear is Simon, two years ago, telling him and Louis to _stop fucking around_ because the fleeting feelings of two teenage boys was nothing in comparison to what he had at stake where their brand and their facades were concerned. And here is Liam telling him the same thing, in so many words, telling him how to live his fucking life because at the end of the day it's just image and profits and watch-your-fucking-behavior-Harry because whether management approves or not is the end all, be all, and Harry is just so done. And the truth is he hasn't gotten that far with Ashton, but the tempting, self-destructive part of his inner psyche wants to see how far he  _can_ , wants to push the boundaries as far as they'll go. Deep down, he wants to piss someone off; Liam, Louis, management...at this point he's not picky.

 

"If it's more..." Liam's thought trails off, his face clearly saying  _tell me I'm wrong_ and Harry wonders how much of this is about the band's livelihood, how much of this is about Louis' feelings, and how much of this is about Liam's need to control everything.

 

"No," Harry says with a roll of his eyes, and he's not even sure what he's disagreeing _with_ , just knows he's feeling extremely disagreeable, "Come on, Li, it's _nothing_ ," 

 

"Nothing to worry about? Or nothing at all?" Liam obdurates, and Harry sighs.

 

"He means absolutely nothing to me," Harry says, and it has to be a lie. Harry feels like Ashton has gotten under his skin, like he can't change the channel in his mind and think of something else. It must be a lie. But it doesn't feel like one. And Harry's not sure if he's gotten really good bullshitting, or just really bad at telling the truth.

 

Liam gives him a look like he's even more disappointed than he expected to be. Harry's not sure how to discern that. 

 

"I'm not as obvious as you seem to think," Harry says pointedly, and it's a lie, but he will go down with this ship.

 

"Nor am I as oblivious," Liam says with a laugh that's devoid of any joy.

 

"What does that mean?" Harry asks, and thinks  _when did everything become a riddle?_

 

Liam just shakes his head.

 

* * *

 

Harry doesn’t know when it became not enough. When _Louis_ became not enough. Except it was never Louis it was him, it was _them_ , it was _Harry and Louis_ and how they were suddenly not the them they were supposed to be. The screensaver on Harry's phone is still the house in Spain he and Louis want to move into whenever One Direction officially have a break. And he wants to pick out nursery colors there and argue over the neighbors with Louis in fifteen years. He wants to bake cookies for their kids’ class and split the holidays between their parents’ houses. He _wants_ that. And yet--and yet he finds himself on his knees, fingers gripping the waistband of Ashton’s skintight jeggings and it’s not worth it. He _knows_ this. Knows that a dozen orgasms and the ego boost are not going to be worth it in the long run, but he can’t help himself. And isn’t that what everyone says? Isn’t that what his own father told his mother, standing in the kitchen when Harry was seven years old? _I couldn't help myself, I don't even know why I did it_.

 

Harry digs his fingers into the soft flesh of Ashton’s torso--a demand for attention--drawing a quiet sound from the younger boy, but his hazel eyes remain fixed on the top of the bunk--not Harry's face--and Harry is drunk and annoyed. Harry is drunk and he doesn’t know why he is doing this. Just causing pain, over and over again in different ways. All he does is cause pain, at least this time it’s intentionally. It’s like taking control, except nothing ever adds up.

 

"Look at me," he says, leaning over Ashton and forcing him to meet his gaze and _oh_  he thinks, there's an intensity in Ashton's eyes he could get used to--a responsiveness that he finds addictive. Harry kisses Ashton and he thinks that for such an indiscretion, it's also the simplest thing in his life in a long time.  Harry kisses Ashton and he knows he won't be taking Liam's advice anytime soon.   


 

In the morning Harry wakes to cold air on his bare skin and the bunk curtain pulled back. Ashton is two feet away, crouched over the toilet, dry heaving in the tour bus bathroom and Harry wonders how much he drank last night. He frowns--searching his memory for the answer--but his mind is wonderfully blank. Ashton's curls are a wild mess, his eyelids shut tight against the artificial brightness of the bathroom's fluorescent lights as he huddles pathetically on the bathroom floor, and Harry can see tears budding at the corners of his eyes. Harry winches sympathetically as the sound of retching slows, and when Ashton lifts a long-fingered hand to flush the toilet Harry notices the tremors along his wrist from dehydration.

 

Harry is across the aisle before he's fully awake, putting a hand on Ashton’s shoulder, as if to soothe his shaking. The younger boy startles, flinching beneath his hand, and Harry steps back, watching as Ashton uses the sink counter to stand on shaky legs. He looks supremely wan, and Harry might not be able to remember how much  _he_ drank last night, but he wonders at the Australian boy's seeming inability to hold his alcohol.

 

“I..." Ashton says, looking around the bus like it's his first time seeing it, "I have to go,” he says, not making eye contact with Harry as he rushes off the bus.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Harry's a bit of an idiot, and self-reflection has never been his strongest suit.

 

After that first night at the dance club Ashton always says yes, like no isn't even in his vocabulary. Even when he doesn't seem to like what Harry's suggesting. Even when the hesitant fingers at Harry's shoulders turn into claws. He still says yes. Or, at least, he doesn't say _no_. And Harry is just a dangerous shade of unaware and narcissistic enough to believe that that means Ashton wants him.

 

"Off," Harry says, tugging on Ashton's pony shirt impatiently, "It's a stupid shirt,"Harry says with a laugh as he tosses it over the couch, and he means it in a teasing manner, but it comes out sounding meaner than he intended. Ashton purses his lips in disapproval and looks off to the side to see where his shirt landed. 

 

"Come on," Harry says, falling back onto the lounge couch and gesturing Ashton closer. Ashton looks down at his feet, like he's about to say something, and Harry sighs in annoyance. There are only thirty minutes until soundcheck and Harry would like to make the most of them. Harry says as much as Ashton kneels between his legs on the plaid three-seater, his hands feeling cold when they slip under Harry's jersey. There's a bruise in the shape of someone else's lips on the left side of Ashton's ribcage and it should be a red flag for Harry--some kind of bodily dissent--but instead it just strikes something like jealousy inside him. Harry flips them over, leaving his own teethmarks over old love-bites in the shape of Calum's smile. Ashton's skin blooms in new black bruises over the faded yellow of half-healed hickies, and Ashton presses his lips to the back of his hand, hoping to muffle the noise in the back of his throat that says he clearly doesn't like it.

 

Harry doesn't question it. Maybe because deep down he doesn't like what he's doing either.

 

* * *

  

Harry hears the voices before he sees where they're coming from, words raised enough to carry across the car park. It takes him a moment to figure out that the louder one belongs to Calum. Harry hasn't heard the younger boy talk a lot--let alone raise his voice--but now he's shouting and he sounds angry and Harry has always been the curious sort, but he's _especially_ interested in what could have made the quiet Kiwi tick. Pressing himself under the nearest awning, and peering around the crew van to get a better look, Harry watches the drama unfold. Calum and Ashton are standing a couple of yards away, a few feet apart from each other, shouting in the parking lot. Ashton is scuffing his converses against the pavement, his body language clearly screaming that he doesn't want to be here, having this conversation (or whatever this is) in such an open space. Calum has his chest puffed out and his face is stony, his stance so aggressive Harry barely recognizes him. He looks livid. Harry didn't even know he had a temper.

 

Harry doesn't spend a lot of time with the younger group as a whole, and besides Ashton the others don't really occupy his thoughts. They don't need to. The boys are so cohesive, so stable in their functioning unit, that Harry never spares them more than a passing thought envying their effortless camaraderie. And it's only now, seeing Ashton's guilt-ridden face and Calum's clenched hands, the thought occurs to him that they're all  _people_. All of them--Ashton, Calum, Michael, and Luke--they all have interpersonal relationships and feelings and personality traits that change and rage and demand to be heard (personality traits that apparently include the tendency to have shouting matches in the fucking back-lot).

 

"How could you?" Calum says brokenly, and Ashton shakes his head fervently, saying something in response that Harry can't hear, but calms Calum down considerably. The Kiwi boy's face softens--and then falls--before he hisses "What the fuck?" looking livid again. He looks past Ashton and Harry realizes that Calum is no longer angry with the other boy, but at whatever Ashton told him. Harry holds his breath, though he doesn't really know why--he's still hidden from view under the awning after-all--and feels like he's missing something important.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry," Ashton murmurs into Calum's shoulder, his fingers digging into the folds of the other boy's hoodie to pull him close. Calum rests his forehead against Ashton's and the older boy lets out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes and falling forward into Calum's embrace. Harry feels like he's intruding. Like even though he's seen the younger boy naked, he's never seen him bared like this. Clearly it's a privilege Harry isn't allowed.

 

Harry slips away quietly before the boys notice his presence, though they're so wrapped up in each other--literally and figuratively--he thinks the effort is wasted.

 

Harry turns and walks away, the image of Ashton trusting and vulnerable fresh in his mind. And he's not bitter. Not at all.

 

* * *

 

Harry hits the punching bag with too much force and too poor of form (and it's the story of his life, really) sending spikes of pain up his arm. He grits his teeth and punches again, and again, building up a sweat and a burn in his muscles, hair falling into his face as his mind clears. He and Louis aren't sleeping together, currently--and 'sleeping' as in being unconscious in the same location at the same time--because Harry's been staying on Bus 2, in his actual assigned bunk, while Louis has secluded himself to Bus 1 and seems to have barred the entry with Zayn and a ring of smoke. And Harry, Harry  _misses_ Louis, and not just because Ashton never wants to stay the night. Actually, that may be a lie, he _does_ miss Louis, just not enough to broach the current chasm they seem to be on opposite sides of. And it's just that Harry gets so lonely sometimes--he's never known what it's like to be on his own--from the second week of Boot Camp he's been spoiled with attention. First he had the five of them in a house, then he had the two of them in their flat and--though he'll never admit it to anyone else--he's not sure _how_ to be alone. Louis became of part of his life so easily, and then when loving Louis wasn't easy anymore Ashton proved to be a more than satisfying distraction.

 

If only he could stop himself from craving things that risk losing him the things he knows deep down he won't be able to survive without. If only he could stop himself from wanting more than anyone should have. If only he could act in his own damn best interest for once, instead of getting misled by  _self-interest_. Whenever he talks to Louis it seems like the other boy is just as in love as he's ever been and that makes Harry feel like a bad person. Maybe Harry...is a bad person. Harry also suspects he doesn't feel as bad as he ought to. Harry has this ever-present feeling that this whole thing is bound to blow up horribly in his face, but until then Harry will take what he can get.

 

The subject of all things temptation and confusion enters the room when Ashton pushes the gym door open.

 

"Sorry to interrupt," Ashton says, his voice holding an edge of wariness it never does around his friends, his hand still on the gym door's handle.

 

Harry flips his hair out of his eyes and grins, "Not at all," he says, and gestures to the bag in front of him, still swaying gently, "Want me to show you how?"

 

Ashton's eyes flicker between Harry's face, his wrapped hands, and the bag between them, trying to determine the other boy's intentions, before saying, "Yeah, okay," with a grin of his own, letting the door swing closed.

 

Ashton holds the bag while Harry does his sets, demonstrating proper form and explaining how to strike, and Ashton nods his head, following along and smiling more like he did at the beginning of tour.

 

"What's got you so chipper?" Harry asks Ashton while the younger boy wraps his hands--biting his lip in concentration while he tightens the fabric--and Harry tries to keep his mind from going south, all manor of inappropriate thoughts involving his boxing wraps and Ashton's wrists, coming to the forefront of his brain.

 

"We got signed," Ashton says, in between strikes to the bag, " _Officially_ ," he adds, smiling broadly, and Harry has always thought that Ashton looks like he has too many teeth in his mouth--not that that stops Harry from finding the younger boy insanely attractive--just as an observation, but when Ashton's eyes light up with pride all Harry thinks is that he really wants to kiss him. Ashton throws in a few side and round-house kicks and if Harry weren't already in love with Louis, well, he'd definitely be entertaining the notion.

 

"Congratulations," Harry says, leaning forward, in between hits, to push the few curls that have escaped Ashton's bandana off his face, "You deserve it," he says warmly, and when he pulls his hand back he realizes Ashton is blushing. It's an oddly intimate moment between the two of them. They're not usually the sort for sweet words or soft touches.

 

"Thanks," Ashton says, bouncing up and down on his toes in a nervous way he has that reminds Harry eerily of Louis, and Harry shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He doesn't want to think about Louis and Ashton in the same breath--though he often can't help it--let alone explore why he finds it so appealing when Ashton wears his glasses or why the lines of his back--lean muscles under tan skin--seem so familiar. He doesn't want to dwell on the similarities Louis and Ashton _~~might may~~ definitely_ have. Or the stark differences. There are times when Ashton says something, or does something, that reminds Harry how dramatic a difference six months can make. It’s weird, being the older one. The one with authority, the one with _experience_. It’s not what he’s used to—he’s used to being the baby of the group—but he likes it, being looked up to. Ashton looks at Harry like he’d believe him anything, like Harry is wonderful for simply _existing_ , and it’s a little intoxicating. Harry wonders if he looks at Louis the same way. He wonders if he used to. 

 

And Harry doesn’t want it to end—any of it. The adoration in Ashton’s eyes, the way he hangs on every word when Harry tells some ridiculous story he’s told a hundred times before (or at least enough times to get an eye-roll from Liam at the opening line), the way he blushes so easily, like Harry pulling him into a dusty supply closet to make out is some big deal. Like he never had a secondary school sweetheart, never had anyone tell him he's beautiful (and maybe he hasn’t, but that isn’t exactly Harry’s concern, simply his advantage). Harry doesn’t want the fun to end. Fun is easy, fun is no responsibilities. Fun isn't talking about feelings or being accountable for actions. It just _is_. So he deliberately ignores the way Ashton's smile seems to thin as the tour goes on, and the way Louis' hand at the small of his back during their final bow still feels like _I love you_. Ignores the teddy bear he saw in Ashton's bunk last week like he ignores the growing bags under Louis' eyes.

 

"Hey," Harry says, leaning into Ashton's personal space and trailing a hand up the inside of his thigh, sliding it under the edge of the other boy's basketball shorts in a move that is neither courteous, nor subtle, "Want to get out of here?" he says, but he halts it's assent when he sees the color drain from Ashton's face.

 

"I just--," Ashton says, and Harry doesn't know when their interactions became all pretense and politics, as Ashton looks anywhere but Harry's face, "I'm just so tired," he says, finally meeting Harry's gaze and Harry doesn't know if the moisture at the edges of Ashton's eyes is from sweat or tears. Ashton blinks rapidly and Harry decides it must have just been the light.

 

"Yeah, I think I might just have an early night myself," Harry says distractedly, and he's too caught up in his own thoughts to hear Ashton's sigh of relief.

 

 _Fun_ seems to be getting complicated. And so does Ashton.

 

* * *

  

Harry corners Ashton backstage after a show. He thinks they're in Texas, but he's not sure, the cities are starting to run together now. He and Louis aren't really talking, and he's pretty sure Calum tripped him when he was coming out of the gym earlier. The atmosphere in the dressing room is suffocating and everything is weird.

 

"Why do you keep brushing me off?" Harry mumbles into Ashton's neck from where he's pressed, skin to skin, pushing Ashton into the edge of the porcelain vanity of a crew bathroom.

 

“It’s complicated,” Ashton says, and he sounds breathless, but whether it's from fear or arousal is not obvious. Harry trails his teeth over the curve of Ashton's throat and chooses to believe it's the latter ( _and what even is there to be afraid of anyway?_ Harry thinks).

 

“Then explain it to me,” Harry says, but one hand is already down Ashton’s pants and he’s really not looking for an explanation. Harry strokes his fingers over the scarred lines on Ashton’s hipbone and lifts an eyebrow as if to say _I’m waiting?_

 

"I--" Ashton says, pressing back--away from Harry's hands and what he's trying to do--but there's no where to go but up. Ashton pushes himself onto the counter and Harry follows closely, crowding in between his legs and pulling the younger boy closer by his belt-loops. He's so  _sick_ of everyone avoiding him, so sick of everyone avoiding everything, even when he's right in fucking front of them.

 

"I don't--" Ashton tries again, looking over Harry's shoulder instinctually--as if in hopes of spotting one of his bandmates--before resting his forehead against Harry's, and it feels like an act of defeat, not comfort. Harry doesn't like being a bully, he's always preferred charm to force when it comes to getting what he wants, but he does like winning.

 

“Are you sleeping with your bass player?” Harry says, and his voice is soft but his tone accusing.

 

“Yes,” Ashton says, pulling back to give Harry a look of incredulity, “He’s my boyfriend,” he says, but it comes out sounding like  _duh?_ ,and the hand Harry has halfway up the back of Ashton's sweatshirt pauses.

 

“Boyfriend?” Harry says with a laugh, “That’s a little inapropos, don’t you think?” and that must strike a chord with Ashton because suddenly he looks so sad and part of Harry desperately wants to understand, but mostly he just wants Ashton to stop being difficult. If he's being honest--and Harry's really hasn't been the biggest fan of that, lately, but whatever--he wants Ashton on his knees with no objections. He wants the younger boy to stop giving him that somber look like Harry wounded him. He wants Louis to voluntarily spend more than five minutes in his presence. He--selfishly, unrealistically--wants everything to go back to normal. Like now that he's gotten everything he wanted, everything he wasn't supposed to have, he also wants to get back everything he's lost. And it's not Ashton's fault that Louis isn't talking to Harry but Harry can certainly blame him for it. He's done worse.

 

Worse, like pressing Ashton's wrists above his head, holding them firmly against the bathroom mirror, making sure they bruise. _Worse_ , because he's making sure that Calum will see it, and not caring that Louis will too. Harry tightens his fingers around Ashton's wrists harder than necessary and thinks, _if Louis were in Ashton's position he'd love it_ , but Ashton is not Louis, and that's kind of the point. 

 

"You're a god damn hypocrite," Ashton hisses against Harry's lips and Harry thinks ruefully,  _I'm a lot of things_ , and kisses him. Electricity hums in the vanity lights above their heads, and the hard edge of the counter digs into Harry's hip, but he pays it no mind when Ashton finally kisses him back. It feels like a victory. He kisses nothing like Louis, and for that Harry will always be grateful.

 

"Ow," Ashton says a few minutes later, "You're hurting me," he says, and Harry thinks how it used to sound like  _stop_ , but now it just sounds like conversation.

 

"Oh?" Harry says, and he's half-taunting, but he lets up on Ashton's wrists minutely. After-all, Ashton _is_ a drummer, and Harry doesn't _want_ to hurt him (this was never about hurting Ashton, this was never about Ashton at all) he just doesn't particularly care if he _does_. Harry's not evil, he's just forgotten what it's like to be vulnerable and desperate. And--thanks to Louis--he will never truly know what it's like to be a teenager with no one to look out for them. He foolishly thinks Ashton could break free from his grip if he really wanted to. He thinks Ashton could just walk away if he really didn't want this, didn't want Harry. He thinks--

 

“Don’t you think it’s time you returned the favor?” Harry says, and it's suggestive, but it's not a suggestion, and the shake of Ashton's head is lost in his curls.

 

The thing is, Harry just doesn't think of himself as having that much power. The shaking of Ashton's hands, pulling at Harry's belt, should have told him how wrong he is.

 

* * *

 

Harry is sitting in the canteen, lost in his thoughts over a cup of earl grey, when Louis stumbles in wearing soccer shorts and a sweater that's two sizes too big (he claimed it from Harry months ago). His hair is a feathery mess and his eyes are sleepy, his too-long sleeves falling past his wrists. Harry thinks he's the perfect picture of cozy adorableness. He also thinks that it's been far too long since he's buried his face in Louis' collarbones.

 

It's in moments like these that he wishes he could undo everything he's done since the beginning of tour, take back this distance he's put between them. And it's not  _regret_ for what he's done so-much as it is  _longing_ for what he no longer has. For what he can't have. Louis takes a seat across the table from him, and Harry thinks that if this scenario were taking place six months ago Louis wouldn't have thought twice about forgoing the chair for Harry's lap. But now oftentimes this looks flashes across Louis' face when Harry touches him--like it pains him to be in close proximity to Harry--and Harry can't fix this if he can't _touch_. Can't make this right if Louis is slipping through his fingers. And even though Harry _wanted_ emotional distance--in the beginning--he ended up getting far more than he bargained for. At first the distance was a relief, but now that they're almost at tour's end the gulf between them is starting to cause Harry to panic.

 

"Morning, love," Harry says, and Louis winces, though Harry can't tell at which word, "It's two in the afternoon," Louis replies with a rough laugh and Harry smiles, pushing the freshly poured cup of tea across the table towards Louis.

 

"I haven't seen you in ages," Harry says, and bites his tongue on the  _I miss you_ because he and Louis haven't had a proper conversation in weeks and he doesn't want to come on too strong. He thinks of Calum and Ashton, shouting in the parking lot, and wishes it could be so simple (wishes that _they_ could be). Wishes he could just shout everything he's feeling at Louis. Wishes Louis would shout at him. Wishes Louis would dig his fingers into Harry's shirt as if he couldn't bare to let go. He's...jealous of Ashton, in so many ways, and it gives him pause, like a secret about himself he'd rather not know. Looking at Louis, sleep-worn and precious and  _his_ even when he's not, Harry wonders if he can learn to be happy with the person he now knows himself to be. Wonders what the fuck is wrong with himself if he can't.

 

"I've just been a bit of an insomniac lately," Louis says as way of an explanation, "You know how it is on tour..." he says, drifting off, the open-ended statement able to be interpreted in a million ways, most of them having nothing to do with sleeping habits, or a lack thereof. He watches Harry cautiously out of the corner of his eye, either hoping that Harry buys his lie or desperately hoping that he calls him on it, and Harry wonders why it seems so hard to reach across the table and take his own boyfriend's hand.

 

Harry acts like he wants the truth, but he really really doesn't. He doesn't want to know that Louis' been crying himself to sleep. He doesn't want to know that Louis has been a neurotic whirlwind of insecurities, questioning himself for answers that Harry himself doesn't even have. He doesn't want to know that Ashton had to call his old therapist in Sydney after a particularly bad panic attack. He doesn't want to care. He figures caring too much got him into this mess, maybe _not_ caring is the way to go. Or maybe he's just an asshole looking for an easy excuse.

 

"When we go back to London..." he starts and Louis looks up, jaw tense and a look of apprehension in his eyes. He looks truly frightened at the prospect of what might come out of Harry's mouth. And Harry can tell himself the red around Louis' eyes is just from him and Zayn hot-boxing their tour bus bathroom last night all he wants, but he knows deep down that the puffiness around Louis' eyes isn't from smoke.

 

"When we go back to London, everything will go back to normal," Harry says, and he pretends that he's just talking about the emotional distance, just talking about their sleeping arrangements and Louis' insomnia. Pretends he knows what the hell he's actually saying. Back in London, everything will be fine. London is _home_. Free from distractions. Free from temptations.

 

"I'll hold you to that, Harry," Louis says, and his voice sounds wrecked but all Harry can think is how good it sounds saying his name.

 

Louis hand on Harry's shoulder is a memory of warmth when Louis brushes past. Harry stares at Louis' empty seat for ten minutes after he leaves--no cohesive thoughts in his head--just staring into space. Louis' earl grey remains untouched.

 

* * *

 

"You alright, Harry?" Louis says, rocking up on his toes a bit, putting his arms around his boyfriend's neck. They've just finished their last Australia show and they're standing outside, catching the sunset before they have to board their ten hour flight to Asia. When Harry looks down at Louis' face he notices the older boy looks tired, and concerned, but mostly Harry just sees love in his face. Comforting _familiar_ love that radiates from Louis like he and Harry haven't been orbiting each other like polar forces the past few weeks, like he and Harry haven't spent the majority of the tour on opposite sides of of a stilted conversation, five months and three weeks of awkward glances and cups of tea gone cold.

 

Harry rests his chin on the top of Louis' head as he watches Ashton and the rest of the boys head for the intranational terminal, and he thinksmaybe he made a mistake. A fleeting moment of self-reflection as he watches Ashton walk away, and he realizes he somehow got attached when feelings weren't supposed to be involved at all. Ashton runs his fingers down Calum's sleeve casually, intimately, and Calum wraps an arm around the older boy's shoulder, pulling him close as they get in line for check-in. Ashton rests his head on his bass player's shoulder, and Harry is too far away to hear the words exchanged, but from a distance he can still see the excess of _fond_. 

 

(Harry thinks  _nothing, he means nothing at all_ , and the bitter laugh in his mind sounds a lot like Liam.)  

 

Ashton wraps an arm around Calum's waist in turn, interlacing fingers with the Kiwi boy when he realizes there are no cameras around, and Harry tells himself he doesn't know what the clench in his gut means.

 

"Harry?" Louis repeats, concern thickening his already strong accent, and it shouldn't be a loaded question, but it seems like they all are these days.

 

"Never better, love," Harry says, smiling reassuringly, and he thinks his smile might be the only genuine thing about him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated :] I'd love to hear what you think! x


End file.
